An old thatched boat full of goods and secrets sails down memory lane. Rice boils on a stained stove again. The same kerosene lamp flickers in the salty breeze. His eyes row along the wet feminine nudity. Often he shatters a widow’s solitude on the Kanoli Bank. He used to steal tender coconuts... The moist events, he recalls and repents. Trucks and trains carry goods. The boatman lies back on the shore like a remnant of the twentieth century, looking up at the vague shapes and floating time. First published in issue #24 of The Literary Hatchet.